Forsaken Abashiri
by Angrybee
Summary: At a cruel prison in the bleak land of north Hokkaido, Anji is searching within to restore his lost faith. But, when the guards throw a halfdead man into Anji's cell, the monk is surprised to find it's someone he knows.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: Rurouni Kenshin is the property of Shonen Jump and Nobuhiro  
Watsuki. This is merely a work of fanfiction, meant to venerate and never  
insult.

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Forsaken Abashiri

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Chapter One: The Colorless Land

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-- 1881 - Abashiri, Hokkaido --

Forsaken. When I look out onto the frozen land, the only word that comes  
to mind is 'forsaken'. Truthfully, it's a bit comforting. I would not  
feel comfortable in a holy place, a blessed place. This is a land of  
blacks and whites; the white of the ice floes in winter, the black of the  
Sea of Okhotsk in summer. Black slate rocks, and white skies... Skies  
drained of all of their bluish tint, so colorless that you can't  
distinguish a cloudy day from a clear one.

Black and white. This, too, is comforting. There are few distractions  
for the senses. It is like this: When a man breaks his leg, he must rest  
his leg, allow the internal wounds to close, allow the bones to mend. It  
is not good for him to push himself and chance agitating his injury. In  
the same way, a man with a broken soul, with great scars upon his faith,  
must rest. Even the smallest strain is not good for the healing process  
until much, much, further into recuperation.

Abashiri. Abashiri. Such a lovely name for such a desolate place. They  
tell me that it is the last untamed frontier of Japan. We are pioneers,  
the guards tell us, we are pioneers as well as prisoners. We are breaking  
rocks to build roads, houses, the infrastructure which will unite this  
remote land to the rest of Meiji Japan. I don't care. Let us never  
finish. Let the land remain untamed. Let the infrastructure never come  
to fruition. Perhaps the Meiji government will finally understand that  
there are some things you just can't force into submission.

I still my pickaxe for a moment and let my gaze settle upon a small jetty  
not too far from our work detail. Rotund seals are sunning themselves on  
the rocks. From this distance, they look like the dumplings Tsubaki-chan  
used to make for us on special days. She was not an especially good cook,  
but she made each meal with care and pride. And we dined with a special  
joy, the happiness of a family which can come together after a long day  
and look upon each other's smiles.

My thoughts often stray to the children. The knowledge that they are with  
me, smiling at me, even in this bleak place always centers me to my task.  
Not the task of breaking rocks, no, that is a task which I can accomplish  
with little grief, with a pickaxe or bare-fisted. They center me to the  
task of becoming, once again, the man they cherished.

"Anji-osho! Enough rest, back to work!"

I nod at the guard and resume breaking rocks. The season is early fall,  
and we are to build a watchtower here before winter sets. We have made  
remarkable time on the project. The weather has been good.

The other men, these other prisoners, I try to guide them as best I can.  
The work is harder for them, especially those who were not previously  
laborers. They have their own demons for crimes they may or may not have  
committed, their own rage, their own scars. But, hunger and exhaustion  
keep them from becoming too unruly. Usually.

The man working to my left is Yuugai-dono, a short Nagasaki-born merchant  
accused of killing a Meiji official in a deal gone bad. I do not  
know the truth of it, but I do know he never complains about the hard  
work, despite the fact that he probably never did any before he came here.  
To my right is a thick-headed brute called Masataka. He has a history of  
being a thug for the yakuza, but nonetheless has a pleasant, if highly  
uneducated, demeanor.

"Did you notice," Yuugai-dono asks, "That the guards have new guns?"

I didn't notice. I guess that sort of thing isn't really what catches my  
eye, anymore. I glance at the nearest one, and find that what Yuugai-dono  
says is true. Their guns are different from before, though, knowing as  
little about guns as I do, I can't say what difference the change will  
make.

Masataka's next swing is a bit ill-placed, and a spray of pebbles hits my  
shoulder. He doesn't notice, but he does take his chance to look at the  
guards while he's dusting himself off. "Them's some good guns. I seen  
that kind a'fore I came here. Our family got a'hole of a couple, but  
didn't much come of it, on account'a some rat stole them from our  
storehouse."

"I do not care for weapons."

"O'course not. Man like you, Anji-osho, pssssh, you just do a man in with  
your hands. Weapons'd be in the way."

Yuugai-dono gives Masataka a squinty-eyed look, which causes the ex-yakuza  
to delve back into his pickaxe swings. "What Anji means, Masataka, is  
that he's reformed, and does not believe in hurting people. Isn't that  
so, Anji?"

Reformed? Reformed...

I just keep working, watching as the rocks split. This, too, is  
destruction in order to reconstruct, decimating a boulder to build a  
watchtower. Though, I don't feel as bad about that as my previous  
inclination -- to destroy the Meiji government to rebuild Japan.

I hear Yuugai-dono give a sigh at my lack of response. Their conversation  
turns to dinner, and the hopes that the cooks will afford us some meat  
tonight, perhaps roast seal, or salmon. But, due to the rarity of such  
dinners, I prefer not to entice my stomach to think of such things.

In truth, prison life does not strike me as being much different than  
living the very disciplined life as a monk. Hard work. Fasting. Trying  
to be a living man, instead of a base animal... Trying to be awake to all  
experiences... Attempting to remain compassionate in a harsh and  
cruel world...

Trying to forgive myself, as well as forgive those who wronged the  
children...

Though, that last one...

Is still a bit difficult.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Abashiri Prison is designed like the spokes of a carriage wheel, with all  
of the long halls of cells and common rooms leading to a central receiving  
station. It is a truly visionary building, with its domed architecture  
and strangely sloped archways at the gates. In all my travels as part of  
the Juppon Gatana, I have never seen such a building.

The curved architecture, they tell me, is to help keep snow off of the top  
of the building. The houses of the native people of this area, the Ainu,  
are similar, I hear. Still, in this black-and-white world of northern  
Hokkaido, the red brick structure stands out like a sumo wrestler dressed  
as a geisha.

Dinner is taken in a common room. There is not much conversation, as we  
are all exhausted, and much more interested in putting food into our  
stomachs. I try my best to eat slowly, thoughtfully, tasting each  
mouthful and giving thanks for it. There is no meat, but no one complains  
or points this out. They will renew their hopes for meat at tomorrow's  
dinner. It never seems to matter if their wish comes true. The power of  
hope comes from hope itself, not in the fulfillment of a wish.

The time for personal pursuits is limited. Some men play games of chance,  
or endeavor to trade for things they desire. Some stew in corners,  
plotting trouble... Either escape, or crimes they might commit when they  
leave Abashiri. Others endeavor to better themselves through whatever  
means possible. Masataka makes inks out of various items he's found or  
squirreled away, and proceeds to use a rather dull old sewing needle to  
tattoo other men. Yuugai-dono, being the merchant that he is, trades  
small items such as paper and tobacco, much of which he procures from the  
guards or from the few Abashiri townspeople who have reason to work among  
us.

It has become my duty to council those who are searching within, or who  
are troubled. I tell them that I can not offer them answers, and that my  
advice is as good or bad as the next person's, but they seem to wish to  
speak with me, all the same. Perhaps it does them good just to get things  
off their chests, so I don't mind. There is much sorrow here, and I must  
do my best to show compassion and resolve in whatever situation I may  
encounter.

When this is done, the guards bark at us to return to our cells. Masataka  
and Yuugai-dono share a cell, but somehow, I've ended up alone. Once or  
twice, the guards have insinuated to me that...should I bust through the  
walls in the middle of the night, and run into the wilderness, they would  
not be surprised if no one came after me. Still, it would be contrary to  
my purpose here to spend all my time thinking about release or escape.

My cell is small, and barren. I do not need much, but I am quite thankful  
that Yuugai-dono was able to procure me a small wall scroll of Buddha's  
likeness. I face it, and pray. I pray mostly that the children will  
continue to watch over me and guide me, for all of my remaining days.  
Then, I attempt to clear my mind of the long day, and begin to meditate.

There are many different forms of meditation, each geared to a specific  
outcome. Tonight, I meditate on the concept of forgiveness, and how it  
differs from understanding and acceptance.

But, somewhere along the line, my thoughts stray to the Juppon Gatana. I  
wonder about the struggles of those who remain, and whether or not they've  
found their own sorts of inner peace.

Many of them posessed bad qualities. But, like in prison, or anywhere,  
even the most devious and cruel of creatures has some innate goodness, or  
it could not exist. I try to find it in them now, in retrospect. I  
suppose, during that time, I did not care much about these things.  
Although I knew that unnatural crimes were being performed, as long as  
they were not done in front of me, I considered myself not responsible.

This is not to say that I didn't perform many terrible crimes, myself.  
But, as Shishio Makoto understood, there were some things that I could  
not, in good conscience, do for him.

It brings me to thoughts of that little onmitsu girl, the one Usui-dono  
almost killed. Innocence should never be destroyed, for it is more  
precious than jewels. I held some anger against Usui-dono for a time...  
But, he is dead now, and it is preposterous to hold onto a negative link  
to something that is gone. So, I have long since let that go.

"Put him in with the monk." I hear several footsteps in the hallway.  
When I open my eyes, I find that my cell is dark, and that it is  
quite late. Sometimes, I lose track of time when I meditate.

The guard unbolts the heavy wooden door to my cell, and kicks it open with  
his foot. The dim light of his lantern creates a triangular stretch of  
barely-illuminated floor. As I stand, another guard appears behind the  
first, carrying what looks like a limp body over his shoulder. I see only  
the man's back, his shaved head, and one long dangling arm. He appears to  
be clothed primarily in blood-soaked rags, and even from here I can smell  
the pungent odor of sweat and burnt flesh that comes with a lengthy  
session of torture.

The guard pulls the man from his shoulder, and with no gentleness or  
compassion whatsoever, drops him in front of me. "He'll probably die in  
the night. But, he asked for a monk or priest to help him prepare."

I nod. They've done this before, given beaten men to me, so that I may  
sit with them while they die. Although I'd prefer that they not beat men  
to death, it truly would be terrible for these men to have to die alone,  
on the floor of some torture chamber, so I comply.

The guard hands me his lantern. I thank him before he leaves, and set the  
light in the corner. At least they give me light. It is terrible, I  
would think, to die in darkness.

I take my jug of water, and bring it over to the man. He's face down on  
the floor, and has not moved once since he was dropped. I kneel down and  
slowly turn him over. He's a tall man, and lean. I can tell just by the  
musculature of his shoulders and arms that he must be used to fighting or  
labor. Although I am not particularly trained for medicine, I attempt to  
start tearing away his shirt in order to check for wounds I could  
bandage, or at the very least clean. He has many injuries, some new, some  
very old. There are scars, bruises, cuts, burns... I can not find a  
patch of skin even as big as my palm that doesn't contain some mark of the  
fights and struggles of this man's life.

I steal a glimpse at his face, but I can see little in the low light of  
the lantern. It's bruised, and slicked with rapidly coagulating blood.  
Much of it is coming from his nose, so I assume that it is probably  
broken. There's a cut under his left ear, but it doesn't seem very deep.  
There are several more cuts on his scalp, but these seem older by at least  
a few days. Probably from having his hair shorn by the guards. They tend  
to be rather rough about it.

Still, there is something about the shape of his face, something...

"Monk..."

His eyes are so swollen that I didn't even notice the left one had opened  
a few millimeters. I nod to him, to indicate that I am, indeed, a monk,  
and the I try to tilt him up so that he may take a sip of water. He does  
so, and...

His hand catches my wrist. He has a surprising grasp for someone so near  
to death. His lips move slightly, but I can't hear his words, so I lean  
in close.

"You...if...Misao...the Aoiya..."

The grasp on my arm slips, and I stare, in complete shock, as I finally  
realize that the half-dead man lying on the dirty floor of my prison  
cell...

Is Shinomori Aoshi.

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The night is long, but cool. I spend much time binding Shinomori's  
wounds. The guard from this block of cells is kind enough to bring me  
more water and clean cloth when I ask for it, though he tells me,  
quite gruffly, that it's a waste. He does it for my sake, he says, and  
not for the scum of a man lying on the floor of my cell.

I don't ask the guard why Shinomori is here. Anything suspicious would  
not be good.

Shinomori is in a terrible condition. I can't imagine what he must have  
done. For the government to amass the sort of forces necessary to go  
after and take down a man who can pretty much disappear at will... Well,  
I assume he can, anyway. I don't know much about the man, save what few  
details Soujirou-san told me on our way to Mt. Hiei, and what little I  
overheard from the others in the Juppon Gatana.

I do know that he is somehow connected to the people of the Aoiya, in  
particular, the little onmitsu girl.

I feel unsettled. So many questions. How could Shinomori be here? Where  
is the little onmitsu girl, if not the rest of his comrades from the  
Aoiya? Why did the guards feel it necessary to beat him to such a degree?  
Although it does happen, the particular scorn with which the guards seem  
to be treating the shinobi is rather rare. And, if they loathe him that  
much, why didn't they kill him? It's not like anyone would really know.  
The guards have only to say that a prisoner was misbehaving, and murder  
becomes justified in the eyes of the law.

It is not particularly fair, but it is reality.

Several times, I have to pick rats off of Shinomori's body. They are  
vicious creatures, and have survived in this harsh land by eating anything  
and everything. I tie strings to their legs, and attach the other ends to  
a wooden beam. Tomorrow, I will toss them out of the barred window in the  
common room, so that they may continue their lives elsewhere.

I watch Shinomori as he sleeps, and offer many prayers on his behalf. It  
is hard to say if he will live or die. Strong men can go suddenly, linger  
for days, or find within themselves the will to live.

"Hannya...soon...very soon..."

He murmurs occasionally. I do not recognize the names, but the sentiment  
is always urgent. Who are these people he calls to in his fitful sleep?  
I wonder, if I were in his position, what names would come to me. No, I  
already know.

Tsubaki, Tasuke, Goro, Kaito, Masako... I know you are here, with me. I  
could not save you from those terrible flames. I could not save your  
innocent souls from seeing the brutality of this world...

This man, he is certainly no innocent. Like me, he has drenched his hands  
in the thick blood of senseless cruelty. But, there is a girl, innocent  
like you, who certainly waits for his return. Help me to spare her from  
losing someone dear.

Beloved children...

Even though I still can not trust in the benevolence of Buddha...

I trust in you.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

In Our Next Chapter: Does Aoshi survive? Why is he in prison? Where's  
Misao? Follow Anji as he attempts to unravel the mysteries while trying  
not to get killed in the bleak world of Abashiri Prison. Until then!

A/N: Although there are five children under Anji's care, only three of  
them are named, so I made up the last two names.

Abashiri Prison is a really prison which was built during the Meiji Era.  
It lays on the Sea of Okhotsk in Northern Hokkaido, and still stands  
today. I actually used it in a previous story, "Hajime and Tokio", but  
wanted to revisit it as a setting for this story.

I've long wanted to write a story about Anji. I really think his story is  
one of the most tragic of RK, but not often explored in fanfiction.


	2. Chapter Two

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Chapter Two

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Morning arrives swiftly, and the pale sunlight of Northern Hokkaido spreads through the land like Seta Soujiro on a mission. I've slept little, but enough. Shinomori stops murmuring in his sleep a short time before dawn. It is hard to say if he is being pulled down towards the last threads of his mortality, or if his less agitated state is a sign of healing. I've seen these things go both ways.

As I prepare for the day, I think about Shinomori. I have no idea what he was trying to say to me last night, about that inn and the onmitsu girl. Perhaps he wants me to get word to them, should anything happen. That seems to be the most logical explanation.

After my morning meditation, I can hear movement in other parts of the prison. The guards are preparing to change shifts. The cooks are stoking fires to make the light gruel which serves as our morning meal. Other prisoners are waking, and the more rowdy ones are making their presence known through shouts and other noises.

The thick bar on my cell door is lifted, and it swings open to reveal one of the guards. I think it's the same one who gave me the lantern last night. He's got a black eye. Well, not so much a black eye as three pronounced purple knuckle-marks right above his cheekbone.

I guess Shinomori got in a few of his own punches. I wonder how many men had to hold him down.

"I've come for the body," he says. He steps inside a nudges Shinomori's head the toe of his boot. "The warden's got to verify…"

"He's not dead."

The guard looks surprised. "No?" He snorts and shrugs. "Guess he's your new cellmate until you…"

"Until I…?"

The guard snorts. I don't think… No, I know he has no intention of answering me. He shifts his weight a bit, as if thinking of the best way to put some bad news. "Look monk, you're a nice guy. You never give us any trouble, you help keep the other prisoners in line, and you break more rocks than ten men combined." I watch as the burly guard sucks on one of his canines, making a squeaking noise that reminds me of a trapped rat. "We all know about your past, and not a one of us blames you one bit for what you done. Hell, I have a daughter. If someone burnt my house while she was still inside, I'd go to the ends of the earth for revenge. But, that man there, he's trash. Lower than trash. And when people get rid of trash, no one bats an eye. Do you get my drift?"

I think I do. They want me to kill Shinomori.

"With respect," I say blandly, "I am not interested."

The guard smirks a little, and goes back to nudging Shinomori's head. "Two years ago, a little girl named Okoto was murdered in Kyoto. She was only nine years old. When they found her, she'd been ripped apart like she was made of tissue paper. There were things done to that child, things so horrible that the police refused to even write them into the report. After Okoto, other children were killed. Two twin boys named Taisei and Taishi… I heard that they were in so many pieces that the police couldn't even tell which parts belonged to which boy. As the months and years wore on, more and more children were found, fifteen in all. Fifteen children, and not a clue as to why they were killed, or by whom."

As he lists off the names of the children, I bow my head. Truly, it is a horrible story. Children… Only a monster would slaughter children. A man can choose for himself, choose his path in life, choose to fight another man in a duel or a war… But, children are so trusting. They are an inviolate blessing, and…

"But, then, just when the police were losing hope that the monster who killed those children would ever be found, they received an anonymous tip leading them to the scene of the next crime. They arrived to find the murder had already been committed. He'd strangled a young woman, and had just drawn his blades to mutilate the corpse… They say it took twenty policemen just to subdue the lunatic…"

The guard lifts his foot, and proceeds to grind the heel of his boot into Shinomori's face. "…This lunatic."

Shinomori? He…? No, that's utterly impossible. I mean, I hardly know the man, but I'm fairly certain he's not… Well, he did seem somewhat mentally unstable. And, that look in his eyes bespoke the sort of man who would do just about anything to achieve an end. But, still…

I glare at Shinomori. No. It just doesn't seem right. This was a man who didn't care for anything except killing Himura Battousai. Still, according to Soujiro-san, Shinomori did fight one of his own comrades, and almost killed the old man. But, that little onmitsu girl was so attached to…

The little onmitsu girl…

"What was her name? The last girl who was killed?"

Surely, surely, I am wrong. It is absolutely impossible to conceive that Shinomori would do something so dastardly. That _anyone_ would do something so foul…

"Misao," the guard says as he heads for the door. "The last one was named Misao."

I turn away from the door. This rage… This fire within me… I can almost hear the bones in Shinomori's skull busting between my hands. I feel the thick sputtering globs of brain oozing between my fingers. If there is even a hair of truth to this story, Shinomori must pay.

Reformed? Me?

Not even close.

"He's your cellmate," the guard says as he steps into the hallway. "Until you choose otherwise."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Today, every rock I break looks something like Shinomori Aoshi's head. Maybe this is good. Maybe this is constructive. I must work off this excess rage. I must find a way to calm myself, to become rational, before everything I've worked towards comes to naught.

The little onmitsu girl…

I bet she would have been a good friend to Tsubaki-chan, if they knew each other. I always felt for Tsubaki-chan… None of the children from the village would ever play with her, or any of the orphans. Just because their parents were on the wrong side of the war, the children in my care were treated as outcasts.

But, they were such good children. Sure, they sometimes made a bit of trouble. Tasuke was the worst. Always provoking Goro-chan into crying by refusing to share. Tsubaki-chan used to scold me for not being sterner with him. "Anji-osho," she would say, "You're just awful! What's wrong with you? Don't you know how to be firm with him?" Well, she didn't mean it, really. I think I just exasperated her, sometimes.

I guess I was never very good with disciplining them. I just never was fond of yelling. I, too, had been an orphan as a boy. The monks who took me in were quite stern, and their form of discipline had made my childhood lonely and hard. They meant well, those monks, so I do not blame them. Nonetheless, I did not wish for the children in my care to have to live so bleak of an existence. I wanted them to revel in their youth, to grow with happiness and contentment.

How I miss them.

How I miss the only family I've ever known.

I do not know much about the little onmitsu girl, but I got the impression that the people of the Aoiya, as well as Shinomori, were somehow family in the same way that my children and I were family. Families not of blood, but of circumstance. That is why I told Himura, Saitou, and Sagara of the threat at the Aoiya. How could I stand by idly and watch a family like my own destroyed?

To think that possibly Shinomori…

I feel ill. So ill, in fact, that I have to stop swinging my pickaxe to catch my breath. The light sweat on the back of my neck immediately absorbs the autumn winds sweeping across the bay. Cold. Cold. So much colder when your faith is shaken.

Is this a test? Is this a test to see if I've been able to achieve some measure of self-healing and forgiveness of others since I came to Abashiri three years ago?

Try as I might to quell my own rage, to instill sanity and reason within my mind, I can't help but think, over and over…

If it is true, I will kill him.

And the mere fact that I think this makes me realize that I've gotten nowhere in my quest for inner peace. Has it been a farce, all this time? Have I been fooling myself? Have I been hiding from the world, here in Abashiri prison, because my faith still fails when faced with the harsh truths of humanity?

"Is it true, Anji-osho? About the child-murderer?" Yuugai-dono clicks his tongue and shakes his head. "That's just terrible. A man like that doesn't even belong in a proper prison, much less Anji-osho's cell."

Masataka juts out his bottom lip, as he often does when he's in deep contemplation about something which displeases him. "You just tell me, Anji. You just say the word, and I'll have some guys take care of that for you."

"No." That's all I can manage to say. I don't want Masataka's "guys" to do anything before I get a chance. Is that horrible? Yes, it is horrible.

Can any amount of prayer cleanse this doubt from my soul?

One of the guards barks that it is time for the afternoon meal. In the afternoons, we are not fed much. The prison does not wish to weigh us down with heavy food, causing our work to suffer. But, we are given a decently refreshing tea to revitalize our bodies. All the men look forward to it, after sweating away most of their morning energy.

I sit on a boulder and attempt to pray a heartfelt thanks for the tea and light gruel, but sincerity eludes me. Instead, I open my eyes and look out onto the endless and unforgiving sea. The dark waves remind me of sharp pieces of flint being pushed up from the depths, flint just waiting to be sparked by some divine hand. The waves rush forward, pulling themselves over the shore like a thick blanket, only to recede in the next instant. The rhythmic whisper of the tide reminds me of the sound of the children breathing, deeply and peacefully, in their sleep.

Fire and the children. It's inescapable. Even the sea seeks to torment me.

Masataka plops down on the ground next to the boulder. As for Yuugai-dono, he finds a smaller rock and attempts to make himself comfortable. There will be a short rest while we wait for the food and tea to be brought to us. A handful of local people move among the prisoners, distributing the food and tea. They are mostly destitute souls, for only the lowest in society would seek employment serving prisoners. There are two old widows, favorites among the prisoners for their kind voices and words of encouragement. Several more are older children, I assume orphans, for what parent would allow a child to be among criminals?

Their life is perhaps even more difficult than my own. At least I know where I shall be sleeping each night, and have no fear of starvation. But, these few work very hard for only a few coins. Preparing meals and tea, bearing water to those prisoners who are parched, washing our clothing and bedding in the frigid sea, patching the tatami of the guard and administrative quarters, and carrying out human waste from empty cells are all tasks which must be done. And for this, they receive barely enough money to keep themselves fed. We prisoners are not the only ones who must work ourselves to the bone.

But, today our food is brought by a boy I have not seen before. He wears the clothing of the Ainu people, a thick robe woven from fibers of the elm tree, tinted green with a dye made from seaweed, and decorated in squid-ink with maze-like square patterns. From underneath his cylindrical cap wild tufts of black hair jut in every direction, appearing to have been haphazardly shorn without care for style, like a man might do to a sheep. His thick boots, probably made from boar or bear skin, appear to be incredibly worn, scuffed, and covered in mud.

I've only had a chance to see these native peoples a few times. Most often, we notice them when they are traveling along the coastline. The men are hoary creatures with thick beards, and are often covered in animal pelts. And the women do not pin their hair back, but let it fall around their shoulders, where it tangles with their colorful necklaces when the wind blows.

When they pass, all work tends to stop. Even the guards gawk at the display, and make no attempt to urge us back to work. The processions along the coastline make me think of sturdy trees, somehow uprooted and doomed to wander. The Ainu never look in our direction, but even without meeting their eyes, the sense of disdain and distrust hangs heavy in the air. We Japanese are, slowly but surely, forcing them from their homes.

This boy is yet too young to have facial hair. However, his face does not lack for adornments. Several polished shells dangle from his left ear. Dull blue paint has been applied to his face, creating fanciful swirls on his cheeks and sharp peaks over his eyebrows, possibly meant to mimic some revered animal. Though he wears thick clothing, I can tell the boy's frame is slight. Nonetheless, I guess him to be around sixteen or seventeen years old.

Still his eyes… His eyes seem different from the thick-browed features of the Ainu. And the color is quite startling. It reminds me of the Sea of Okhotsk in spring, right after the ice has broken, and small patches of seaweed have begun to grow again in the shallows.

I've forgotten about Shinomori for the moment. My concern for children tends to eradicate all other thoughts. "You are new here?"

The boy nods several times as he hands out our teacups. He smiles widely, a smile so free and giving, I feel as if my soul could be warmed by it. A rather melodious voice replies, "Yes, sir, it's true. I'm Etekke, of the Sonko tribe."

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Etekke. Your Japanese is very good."

"Oh yes, well… My mother was Ainu, but my father was Japanese. And, I'm a little of both, and a whole lot of wanderer." Etekke pours our tea, and then plops down on the ground next to Masataka. "This work is hard. I think I will sit here in your shadow for a while, big man, so those dumb guards can't see me."

Masataka laughs rather heartily, and Yuugai-dono scoots closer to me, in order to help shield Etekke from the guards' line of sight.

A half-and-half blooded boy. It is no wonder he must take such awful work. Children such as he are usually treated as outcasts.

"Say, are you that monk everyone is talking about?" Etekke asks. "The one who can break rocks with his hands?"

"That is I."

Etekke squints at me for a long moment, and then pours some tea for himself. "Y'know, I heard your new cellmate kills little kids, huh? What a bad guy! Is he around? I'd like to spit on someone like that."

Does _everyone_ know about Shinomori's arrival?

"He is not here. He has many wounds, and can not yet work."

I watch as Etekke's grip on his teacup tightens. His voice turns from sonorous to strangely quiet as he murmurs simply, "I see."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. I do not look forward to returning to my cell. As we trudge back to Abashiri Prison, I raise my eyes to the verdant forest on the slopes of Mount Yuka. If I had to run, if I were compelled to escape, I would go there. There, within the tall, tightly-packed pines, a man could disappear for a time. But, only if he is prepared to live a bleak existence. If he is not eaten by animals, or killed by the Ainu, he will only be able to live as a wild thing, out of contact with all people. The only Japanese city here is Abashiri. Even if a man should travel far to the southwest, in the hopes of eventually reaching the outpost of Sapporo, he would face many obstacles. One man alone has little chance to survive even in the best of weather. But, with winter approaching…

Yet, there is one man who lives on the slopes Mount Yuka. About a fourth of the way up, a series of roofs appear where trees have been cleared away. The house, massive and grand in true Western style, belongs to the one man who rules the fate of all of the Abashiri prisoners. The warden.

He is not a pleasant man, the warden. I have had occasion to meet him several times, and find him to be the truest sort of Meiji bureaucrat. Slimy and corrupt. His unsavory attitude toward life and those who serve him is probably the reason he was forced to take such a post. Even among the administrators of the prison, Abashiri is an exile for those who have displeased their superiors.

Within the prison, it is business as usual. I take my dinner in silence, and the other prisoners steer clear of me. I must be giving off a rather unwelcoming aura, because even Masataka and Yuugai-dono keep their distance.

As I eat, I think of my young pupil, Sagara Sanosuke. He is a young man with a very pure heart, who also understands loss, as well as rage. I wonder what he would do in my situation. Ah, he would probably yell at Shinomori until one of them fell over from exhaustion. No matter how much determination is in Sagara's heart, I do not think he has ever entertained a thought as dark as crushing a man's skull.

Sagara…

I had a letter from him, some months ago. He related to me that he is now in China, and that he spends much time spreading the philosophies he learned from Himura, though Sagara says he tempers those philosophies greatly with his own ideas, now. He says he still practices at the technique I taught him, and that he is better at it now than I was when last we met. Sagara said that I should come to China when I am released to find out for myself if he is boasting.

I might just do that.

I hope that I will not also be bringing news of the death of Shinomori Aoshi.

I wish I could write Sagara to have him investigate the truth behind the allegations charged at Shinomori. But, being that he is in China, he would probably know nothing. Who, then? I know not where Seta Soujiro is located. Kamatari's last message was short, cryptic, perfumed, and postmarked from Europe. Fuji can't read, not because he's incapable of intelligence, but because the writing is too small. And Henya…

Henya is just too strange.

I trust Himura to tell me the truth, but I also know he'll try to come here, himself, if there is truly some sort of trouble. And, the man deserves to be safe from peril, now that, according to Sagara, he has a family.

That leaves only one. The one who is most likely to know, simply because of his involvement with the Tokyo police, and that cop, Saitou Hajime…

I will have to write Sawagejou Chou.

I just wonder if I can restrain myself long enough to wait for the reply.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

I draw extra food, water, and blankets for Shinomori, and head to my cell early. When I arrive, I find that Shinomori has moved. He's pulled himself against the farthest wall, and is sitting, his head lolled to one side, with a tightly twisted blanket in his hands. I guess he figured he'd use it as some sort of weapon against anyone who might come after him.

I stop at the threshold and watch him for a moment. He's breathing, I can tell. But, I am not certain if I count that as a good thing, or a bad thing.

After putting down the things I've brought, I open the slat over the barred window to air out the room, as well as let in the evening light. When I turn back around, one of Shinomori's swollen eyes has popped open. I don't care for the way he is looking at me, with such unflinching intensity despite his injuries. The gaze of that one eye follows me as I move around the room, making me even more unsettled. I resolve to mentally chant a certain sutra which has often aided me in finding a more peaceful state of mind.

It doesn't particularly help.

After setting out a proper futon for Shinomori, I take the food, and bring it closer. "Can you eat?"

That gaze which had been focused so intensely on me before, now turns away. His lips, which are dry, cracked, and bloody, barely move as he responds, "Aa."

I hand him the bowl, careful to make sure that he has a good grip on it before I let go. He watches me as he eats. I get the feeling that I am not particularly trusted, and the sentiment is certainly warranted.

I notice his arm shake several times as he eats, so much so that he loses a good portion of the bowl's contents onto the floor. It's taking all of his strength just to be awake, just to keep eating.

If I'm going to kill him, I should do it now. Tonight. Before he regains his strength.

These thoughts, these horrible thoughts… This rage, so reminiscent of the days after the fire…

"I must meditate," I say, and turn toward the wall-scroll bearing Buddha's likeness. I must meditate in the hopes that the correct path will come to me.

What should I do? What would the children want me to do? I attempt to clear my mind.

And then I remember a particular incident which occurred at the temple, when I was living there with the children. A wanderer came and begged food and shelter of us. I had thought, for a moment, to turn him away. We had little, and I was worried that our food supplies would just be further diminished. But, Tsubaki-chan said we could make do. Tasuke and Kaito managed to catch some frogs down by the stream, and Tsubaki-chan put them into a stew. We had dinner with that wanderer, and he told the children a great many stories of his travels which made them laugh.

The next morning, after the wanderer left, some officials from the village came to call. They were looking for a person who had been traveling through the area. He was a very dangerous man, they said, and possibly involved in a local murder. I was shocked when they gave me a description which exactly matched the kindly wanderer.

When the officials left, Tsubaki-chan, who had been listening outside the door, came in and asked me, "Why do you look so worried, Anji-osho?"

I hung my head, for I felt quite overwhelmed at how close I'd let the children come to danger. "I misjudged his character."

"Maybe." Tsubaki-chan put her hand on my shoulder. "Anji-osho is very trusting of people, but that's the way we like him. That's the good way to be, isn't it?"

I was so thankful, then, to Buddha for keeping us safe. I thought to myself that we should never again allow wanderers to seek shelter in our temple.

But, as the other children filed in, all terribly excited due to the fact that Masako-chan had been given a basket of sweets by one of the temple's few remaining patrons, I realized something. Buddha had protected us, not with a divine hand of intervention, but by the mere presence of these good children. Perhaps the children's smiles and acceptance of the wanderer had helped to soothe the beast within his heart. If we had turned him away, would he have hardened his heart? Would his journey have been just that much more difficult? It is difficult to say what effect one act of kindness can have upon a person. Similarly, one can not say what damage will be wreaked by a single moment of mistrust.

But, for that one night, because of our hospitality, he had decided to be a kindly wanderer, instead of a dangerous man. It was entirely possible that our warmth would give him something to think about the next time he faced the monster within him.

One person's kindness can do much to heal a soul. Himura knows it, too. I doubt he even remembers that frog stew. I know he doesn't remember me, or the children. I looked much different, the second time we met. And, he probably stayed at many temples during his ten-year journey.

Of course, Himura was not involved in that murder. The authorities caught the real culprit sometime later, and I was glad to know that we had been right in giving that strange little rurouni shelter.

When I open my eyes, I find that Shinomori has somehow made his way to the futon I put on the floor. Of course, he is staring at me with that one working eye, icily examining me, waiting for my next move.

I understand now. He knows my dilemma. I don't know if he heard the guard speaking to me this morning, or if perhaps he deduced it on his own, but he knows. 

I purposefully meet his gaze, and say, "I do not intend to kill you, Shinomori Aoshi."

I mean it, too. They say he killed that little onmitsu girl, but I must have faith that this is not the truth. Just like in the case of a wanderer who came to our temple so long ago, it is now my choice whether to provide kindness or wallow in mistrust. Because, as Buddha teaches, and as my children somehow intrinsically knew, a man's path is not about where he has been, and what he has done, but about how he decides to live now, and for the rest of his life.

"I see." Shinomori's voice is still cold, but it no longer possesses a certain quality of confrontation. He turns over and puts his back to me, apparently now comfortable enough to take his eyes off of me.

I begin to set my own bedding into place. It will be good to sleep, since I did not do so last night. My whole body is plagued with a tiredness I have not known in some time.

But, before I drift off, in the faint tendrils of consciousness when one is neither awake nor asleep, I am certain that I hear a voice, strangely bereft of severity, oddly conversational in tone. And, it makes me relieved to know that, once again, I am on the right path.

"Misao was right about you, Yuukyuzan Anji."

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

In Our Next Chapter: After Aoshi recovers, life in Abashiri Prison grows interesting. More of the mystery will be revealed. So, stay tuned!

Author's Notes:

I swear it will all make sense in the end, so please bear with me for at least another chapter or two.

Location note: There is no Mount Yuka. I just made that part up for story purposes. Sorry.

The Ainu: The Ainu are a native people who lived in north Hokkaido. Many of them were forced from their homes when the Meiji government began to develop the area. They have their own language and culture, which is very distinct from Japan. They are probably more closely related to the Aleuts of Alaska than to the Japanese, culturally, if that helps in picturing them.

This story: I should probably reveal now that this story is a quasi-sequel to another story I wrote, called "Sundial". However, there is absolutely no need to read the first story in order to understand this one. It's just that Sundial happens, and then this story occurs about three years later.

Special thanks to all reviewers of the first chapter. I am glad you took a chance on a story from Anji's point of view, and I hope that you'll continue to read. I expect this story to be about four or five chapters long. Anyway, thanks again to: Sybel Sayrah, Shimizu Hitomi, Lotus-chan, gure, ShoshanaFlower, Miss Daydream, Ouatic-7, Ellie, MG-1, mimuranomiko19, Aikida, FrameofMind, irksomeone, Gemini1, conspirator, Charmed Wolf, Phi-Dono, moeru himura, autumndays, en route, Keitorin.


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